


You Never Give Me Your Money

by singlesrvngfrend



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: F/M, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlesrvngfrend/pseuds/singlesrvngfrend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate's not a <i>street-walker</i>, he just happens to fuck people for money. And he doesn't proposition guys outside of the local 7-Eleven. Except when he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Never Give Me Your Money

**Author's Note:**

> This damn thing has been so long in the making. Originally intended as a birthday present for nightanddaze, it's only about eight months late. To make matters worse, she very wonderfully lent me her incomparable beta skills. This is for you, BB!
> 
> Comments are ♥

Nate is super fucking picky. He makes plenty enough good money where he works in northern L.A. County that he can be, so he never has to do that “street walking” or whatever bullshit the movies and TV will have you thinking hookers do. Well. Not that Nate would consider himself a hooker, but he’s realistic enough to know he’s not College Joe.

So whatever, it’s just that usually clients come to _him_ , or they at least meet somewhere already agreed upon. He doesn’t proposition guys outside of convenience stores, or anywhere else, really. So it’s just as much a surprise to him as to the other guy when he offers up a blow job in front of the 7-Eleven a few blocks from his neighborhood.

The other guy—whose name he discovers is Brad—doesn’t actually _look_ terribly surprised, but he gives a peculiar smile that only pulls half of his mouth upward but somehow reveals all of his teeth, which are straight and white and very nice. He was carrying a pack of Big Red but he sticks it in his pocket before zoning in on Nate’s face—his _eyes_ , not his mouth, which should have been an alert but no—and asks, “Want a ride?”

It took Nate about twenty minutes to leisurely stroll to the 7-Eleven but it takes Brad only three to get him back to his apartment on his bike, a BMW motorcycle with metal that looks almost blue. It takes even less time than that for Nate to get Brad pushed flush against the cheap wood paneling of his door with his pants around his knees and his cock in Nate’s mouth.

He’s clean-smelling, and salty, both of which Nate expected. He also expects Brad’s dick to be long and thin, like the rest of him, but instead it’s average length with a perfect mouth-stretching girth.

Brad’s focus doesn’t waver from Nate’s face, skating between Nate’s lips spread red and taut around his cock and Nate’s eyes with lowered lids and lust-expanded pupils, even when Nate strokes the wide flat of his tongue just beneath the crown and can almost immediately feel Brad responding, shooting his mouth and throat full of come.

He collects $50, even though he hasn’t charged less than $75 since his earlier days in Orange County, says an awkward goodbye to Brad, and shucks his favorite blue jeans when he gets inside before crawling between his soft sheets and jerking off quickly, the back of his tongue briny with the taste of Brad’s come.

*

He thinks about Brad some the next day, and Friday too, which really pisses him off. He’s got a job to do, set weeks ago, and he can’t seem to find the proper fucking _headspace_ he needs to make it through the minimum of three hours he’s going to have to spend with Shauna Earhart at her client’s movie premiere and the sex that inevitably follows.

But he tries, anyway, going through his usual extended grooming routine and high-protein, low-taste meal, avoiding anything that might foul his breath or cause any stomach irritation. Nate learned the hard way early on that you never knew what the job might bring, so like a dutiful Boy Scout, he prepared for everything.

Except, apparently, for Brad knocking on his door sometime after six, while Nate is struggling with his bowtie. He can’t imagine the look on his face when he opens the door to find Brad standing there, but it’s definitely not the pleased smile Brad was probably expecting.

Brad raises a motorcycle helmet in one hand. “Take a ride?”

Nate turns away to continue the fight against his bowtie. “I have to work.” He gives Brad an unimpressed look. “Did you think I was going to a costume party or something?”

“You sure?” Brad asks. “Sun looks really nice along the coast this time of day. And I brought you an extra cover.” He hefts the helmet again in offering.

He doesn’t want to look back at Brad, doesn’t want the added temptation to skip a job he’s been dreading all day. “Movie starts at 7:15. I have to be at Shauna’s before that to take the limo to the theater.” He grunts in frustration when the knot comes out crooked again and startles when Brad’s image suddenly joins his in the mirror.

“What are you going to see?” Brad turns him around and pulls the tie free, and Nate watches his long fingers the best he can as they confidently twist the cloth beneath his chin, trying not to think about the way they cupped his neck and pulled at the short hairs at the back of his head.

“ _With the Hunger of Lions_ ,” Nate distractedly answers. “It’s an art house thing, might actually be pretty good.” Brad steps back a few inches as Nate turns around to admire the flawless knot. His eyes close when he sees Brad step in behind him.

“Well,” Brad says, right into his ear. “Have fun.” The flat of his tongue wets a stripe along the thin rim of the back of Nate’s ear and Nate simultaneously shivers and shoots an annoyed glare at Brad’s smirk. “I’ll be around.”

*

Nate’s in the limo already when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, thinking it’s a good thing he was reminded to shut it off before getting in to the movie. The number on the display is unfamiliar, but the text leaves no doubt.

 _Ride offer stands, bike is optional. Btw your skin is delicious. Enjoy the movie_

Nate tries not to let his sudden arousal or irritation show. He shuts his phone off without deleting the number and for the next three hours, tries to forget Brad exists.

*

When he steps into his apartment two hours and forty-seven minutes later, all Nate wants is a beer, something dark and rich and flavorful enough to erase Shauna’s taste from his tongue. Naturally, when he opens his fridge, he only finds three bottles of Swedish bottled water and the remains of a fruit-flavored protein shake.

He slams the door. _Goddammit._

Nate doesn’t let himself think about it before he opens his phone and texts the last number he’d received.

 _Want to go for that bike ride now?_

The reply was almost immediate. _Wont be as good after dark. Im at bar w friends want to meet here?_

Nate thinks about dealing with another crowd of people, Brad in the center, and honestly doesn’t think he could handle it. _I’m no good for socializing tonight. Some other time, I guess._

Several minutes go by, and his phone remains silent. Nate trades the tux for t-shirt and threadbare jeans and debates if it would be worth it to walk to the convenience store and pick up a six-pack. He’s almost decided it would when he’s surprised by a knock on the door.

This time Nate does expect it to be Brad, which it is, and who offers the helmet again. “I have beer at my house, too.”

Nate takes the helmet.

*

The taste of Brad coating the inside of his mouth had obliterated any traces of Shauna and the hoppy microbrew Brad stocked his fridge with hours ago. Nate’s memory of the evening is a sensual smear, starting at the long bike ride to Brad’s, the feel of Brad between his splayed thighs and the growl of the bike underneath him more than enough to push his hard cock roughly against the zipper placket in his jeans.

Nate can’t remember any significant stretch of time after that when he _wasn’t_ a hard, sticky, leaking mess. Brad had retrieved the promised beer first thing upon entering the house, but was on his knees pulling Nate’s jeans open almost before he’d put the beer in Nate’s hand. Nate had come embarrassingly fast, and Brad swallowed him down with an expression somehow both hungry and satisfied that set Nate on edge.

The hours to follow had been a blur of Brad and his navy sheets, soft and spicy-smelling. Nate riding Brad’s cock, fascinated with the way it looked sliding in and out of him. Brad, legs spread wide and torso arched taut as Nate fucked him long and slow with his fingers until Brad gave in to Nate’s husky demands, shooting streak after streak of ropy come on his own belly. And more and more and more: the texture of Brad’s wet tongue, the roughness of his hands, the taste of his skin that got saltier, his come that got stronger as the night wore on and less of it would leak from Brad’s reddened dick.

It hadn’t even been a question of going home. Nate had been unconscious before Brad had even gotten back from the kitchen with a glass of water after the last round.

*

Nate wakes first in the morning, the smell and sound of fresh brewing coffee a siren call to Brad’s warm kitchen. He makes his way to the alluring aroma and digs around until he finds everything he needs—mug, cream, spoon—and takes a big, noisy slurp. Then another, closing his eyes and moaning because holy _shit_ that is some really good coffee.

“Goddamn, coffee snob. It’s a beverage, not an orgasm. When you finish jizzing all over the cabinets get your lame ass in here and play with me.”

The voice is definitely not Brad’s. Nate’s not sure who’s more surprised when he walks to the open area between kitchen and living room and encounters a random guy tinkering with Brad’s PS3. There’s a quiet, void moment when they each take in the other, and as Nate notices the man’s sun-darkened skin, short dark hair and style of dress that is vaguely reminiscent of Brad’s own, he knows he must look like exactly what he is. He wishes he’d taken the time to do more than pull on his jeans and half-heartedly tug up the zipper.

He might feel better about himself if his pants were at least closed enough that this stranger couldn’t tell what color his carpet is.

“Braaaaaaad!” Nate winces at the guy’s _really loud_ voice, and when he turns his head away to yell towards Brad’s bedroom, Nate quickly finishes zipping and buttoning his jeans. “Your homo boyfriend is flopping his dick around and any second now he’s going to be all over my nuts. If you don’t get out here right the fuck now you might end up interrupting me getting a blow job. And then I’ll have to be upset. Get. The fuck. UP! Man should not play Guitar Hero alone.”

Brad appears in the open doorway, one cheek bulging with the shape of his toothbrush. “I don’t know that I consider you a man, Ray, so that should not be a problem.” His words are barely muffled, and he skates a look over Nate, down his bare torso and the fastened button of his jeans. “’Flopping around?’” Brad asks, eyebrows slightly raised.

Nate just rolls his eyes, turns his back on the both of them. If this is how the morning will play out, he’s going to need more coffee.

*

Two and a half hours later, Brad and Ray—who got no less abrasive as the morning wore on, but did somehow get more amusing—were playing Call of Duty with a seriousness that was unwarranted for a video game. Brad hasn’t asked him to stay; he’d convinced him to play a few rounds of Guitar Hero, which went on for almost two hours, but the words “don’t go yet” haven’t even looked close to Brad’s tongue. And Nate would know; he’s kind of been watching Brad’s mouth.

Once, Nate actually did the math, figured out how much Brad was going to owe him for so many consecutive hours of his time. It was getting pretty high, and he’d wondered if maybe he should just go ahead and decide on a day rate for Brad. But then Ray took a piss break and Brad stretched over Nate on the couch, chasing the lingering bitter taste of the coffee on the inside of Nate’s bottom lip and released him with a soft smile that was hotter even than the feel of his hand ghosting along the soft bulge in Nate’s jeans.

He kind of let the idea go after that; he’d think about it later, maybe.

*

The day is wavering in that limbo between afternoon and evening. Ray has been gone less than an hour and Brad and Nate are twisted around each other on Brad’s huge, overstuffed couch. Nate had showered and wandered out in only his jeans to find Brad, heavy-lidded and nude, spread out on the couch like a buffet. Now he’s sucking on the dip in Brad’s collarbone in a way that would leave an obvious hickey if anybody else did it, but Nate has using his mouth without leaving a mark down to an art.

Brad is thrusting his hips and rubbing his erection against Nate’s upper abs, squirming beneath Nate and being very noisy. Nate doesn’t pay it much attention until his gasps, moans, and shaky indrawn breaths become words. And those words are, “Fuck me. Nate. God. Fuck me.”

Nate’s used to begging. He’s used to guys, _clients_ , panting and moaning and pleading _touch me, suck me, let me_ , but he’s not used to the breathless, punched-out feeling hearing it from Brad gives him. He moves on autopilot, lets his mouth take over.

“Yeah? You wanna spread for me, Brad? Spread that perfect, tight ass around my fingers, my cock? Gonna feel so good, get you so hot and open—”

Brad makes an improbable whining sound, and abruptly shoves two long fingers into Nate’s mouth, stopping the flow of words. Nate sucks on them for only a few seconds, running the tip of his tongue along the seam between them, before pulling Brad’s hand back and pushing forward until the back of Brad’s wrist is resting above his head on the arm of the couch.

“Nu-uh-uh. Gonna need more than just spit for this. Gotta get you all slicked up.” Nate finds the packet of lube in his pocket, smears his fingers sloppy and shiny. Brad’s dick twitches hard when he pushes one finger in, again when another finger immediately joins it. The twitch is followed by a pulse of precome, and Nate doesn’t even think before smearing it up Brad’s stomach, sucking it out of his navel.

Nate pulls his fingers out, bumps across Brad’s hole with his knuckles, rubbing and teasing, before pushing them in again. He fucks Brad with his fingers for a long minute, slow, teasing himself with the hot cling of skin.

“So fucking tight Brad, Jesus Christ. Have you ever even been fucked before?” Brad just jerks against his hand, spills another strand of precome on his belly. “I could believe it, you want it so bad. Never had this tight ass fucked out. Gonna give it to you now, stuff you so full of my cock…”

Nate jerks his fingers out, fumbles for his condom, needs to be in Brad _now now now_. Brad makes his whining noise again, low and long, and Nate gets the condom on so fast his dick is pushing against Brad’s hole before the noise has even stopped. It transmutes abruptly to a grunt, then silence, as Nate pushes in, keeps pushing, not stopping or slowing down until he’s all the way, balls brushing the lube-tacky skin of Brad’s ass.

For the first time in a long time, Nate doesn’t have control. He’s barely gotten inside of Brad, and even with a condom on he’s already twitching, jerking, grinding his teeth to keep from coming. Brad’s not helping, moving his hips and trying to fuck himself on Nate’s cock. Over the faint ringing in his ears, he can hear Brad’s voice, strained and guttural. Pleading.

“Nate, Nate, Nate.”

Finally calm enough to move, Nate shoves his hips back and forward, quick, the sound of slapping skin incendiary. Brad’s long legs swing up to wrap around his waist, and the new, deeper angle snatches away the thread of control he’d managed to gather. Nate’s string of filth degenerates into a series of grunts and almost-whimpers, the only words he can manage are curses and blasphemes and different variations of Brad’s name.

Nate’s hips jerk forward, harsh, clawing tight to the edge of control to keep from coming before Brad. Brad’s hand is curled tight around his dick, short, sharp jerks from the base that don’t cover the whole shaft. Nate leans his weight heavily on one arm, and Brad’s grunt becomes a moan as Nate slips his free hand around his cockhead, palm smoothing around the silky skin.

Brad shakes and keens when Nate presses his thumb in a skating line across his frenulum and over the sticky slit. Nate gasps and thrusts fast and deep, Brad clenching tight, and loses it, the skin around him hot and clinging. Nate twitches forward, again and again, the pleasure only building as his come inside the condom slips and smears over his hyper-sensitized cock.

Nate’s palm slips around Brad’s dick, Brad’s hand still wrapped, jerking, around the shaft as Nate pushes it flat against Brad’s abdomen.

“Oh, shit. Nate. Oh, shit. Shit.”

Brad gasps and hisses, his head thrown back and pushed into the give of the couch as Nate smears palm, calluses, fingers all over and around and under his crown, pressed tight to his own belly. Brad freezes, taut, for breathless seconds before release, a soft _unh_ immediately followed by a strong jerk of his dick and rush of warm wet across Nate’s fingers.

Nate strokes down, bumping Brad’s hand out of the way to rub Brad’s first burst of come into the skin of his dick. He keeps up the motion, stroking Brad through the rest of a long come, Brad’s hands curled around Nate’s head, palms partially covering his ears. Nate hears an echo of Brad’s groans, his own thumping heartbeat and harsh breaths, and the rushing sound of the ocean to match the salt smell permeating the air around them.

He thumps down, supporting wrist collapsing under him as he lands sprawled across Brad’s chest. They’re sticky and sweaty and Nate’s throat crowds with words about money and the need for a shower but this is okay for right now. He breathes deep, feels Brad doing the same, and closes his eyes. This is just fine.

*

Nate’s fully clothed for the first time in what feels like days, but has really been less than 24 hours. He’s on the couch after his shower, reading all his missed texts while Brad rummages around in the kitchen.

Brad appears in the open space between kitchen and living room with a sandwich folded in one hand as Nate is reading his last text—a reminder that rent is due, which couldn’t have been more effective in prompting Nate to have this conversation.

He looks up to where Brad is quietly chewing. “I’m only going to charge for eight hours. It’s… that keeps it under the day rate. I’m not including the night because you didn’t ask and I didn’t intend to stay. So. Eight hours.”

Nate hasn’t been so unsure in receiving his payment since the beginning, since before it became simply recompense for services rendered. He gets up from the couch, nervously fiddling with his phone as Brad calmly finishes his sandwich and disappears into the darkened bedroom.

Nate shifts, anxiously moving closer to the door as Brad remains absent and nearly silent. He almost jumps when Brad re-emerges, heading straight for Nate, and keeps moving forward even when they’re inches apart, backing Nate up against the wall before stopping.

He tucks his hand into Nate’s pocket, a crisp, thin stack of neatly folded bills left behind when Brad’s fingers slip back out. Nate’s eyes are glued to Brad’s face, strangely expressionless, blank, and when Nate swallows he can see a lightning-flash tightening around Brad’s eyes and mouth. Anger, Nate thinks, at a best guess. Not very reassuring.

“I want to be clear,” Brad says, and his voice is just like his face: flat, empty. “You have to charge for our time spent together?”

Nate barely holds back from glaring, feeling crowded and pressured. “I charge for fucking. But if it’s taking a long time to get to the fucking, then yes, I charge for time. With exceptions. You didn’t ask me to spend the night so there was no reason to ask you to pay for that time. It was my decision, so it’s my time to waste.”

Brad looks at him for a minute, quiet. Assessing. Thinking.

“If it’s your idea, you don’t charge.”

“I guess.” Nate didn’t know where this was going, but he was sure he wasn’t really going to like it.

“If we’re not fucking, you don’t charge.”

“I guess, yeah.”

“So if you called me, and we went out somewhere, ate a taco. Something, whatever. And I sucked your dick… you don’t charge.” It’s barely a question, Brad setting parameters and figuring Nate out.

“Brad…”

“It’s just a hypothetical question, Nate. To establish the rules of engagement.”

Nate’s mouth straightens, a closed, flat line in his face as he looks up at Brad. “Okay. Fine. If I call you, eat a fucking taco, and you suck my dick, I don’t charge. Anything else?”

Brad steps back, expression quickly becoming pleasant, smile crinkling his cheeks and the corners of his eyes.

“No. Thanks.” And Nate’s expecting just about anything at this point, except for Brad to stick out his hand like he wants Nate to _shake_ it. Nate’s bewildered, knows he looks it, but he shakes Brad’s hand and walks out the door.

He takes a cab—there’s too much money in his pocket to think about walking—and as he fingers the lump in his pocket he thinks about Brad, and his lean body, the taste and perfect weight of him in Nate’s mouth, the way he begged for Nate to fuck him.

He thinks about Brad wanting to fuck him for free. He thinks he’ll probably never see Brad again.

*

Nate gets a text less than 36 hours later.

 _Want to get a taco?_

The _No_ he sends in reply is immediate, and Nate is quietly fuming; at Brad, for his presumption, at himself, for actually wanting to do it, accept Brad’s stupid fucking taco and let that smart, pink mouth do whatever it wants.

Nate doesn’t work for free. Brad can go fuck somebody else.

*

A few days later and it’s the weekend again. Nate hasn’t gotten any calls from his regulars, no new business, and he’s frustrated. He’s got too much free time and he’s spent it alternating between wanting to punch Brad in the mouth and wanting to repeat their first encounter all over again.

He takes a run late in the afternoon when it’s too damn warm, and it wears him out enough to be relaxed and amiable when his phone vibrates against his leg.

 _Do you surf?_

Nate huffs, because really?

 _No, never have._ He knows giving more than a one-word answer will probably encourage Brad. But it’s ok, because there’s no way Brad is going to convince him to go surfing.

 _Want to learn?_

 _No._ Nate’s phone is quiet long enough for the screen to dim, and he leaves it on the table, heading for the shower. He’s already got the water on when he faintly hears it rattle against the counter he left it on. He considers letting it wait, letting Brad wait, but he turns the water off and goes to check it anyway.

 _Want to watch me surf? I can pick you up in the am. Well take the bike. Its a nice ride_

Nate imagines Brad in the water, the lithe, compact power of him. The beach might be nice, hot sun and warm sand and cool water.

 _What time?_

 _Sixish for sunrise and tide_

Nate almost laughs out loud. Get up while it’s still dark to sit on a chilly beach and watch Brad surf?

 _Too early_

The phone is still for a long minute, the silence of Nate’s apartment heavy and uncomfortable. Nate almost jumps when the phone finally shakes in his hand.

 _Maybe next time_

Brad’s disappointment is palpable. Nate almost types in a reply, _Sure. Maybe next time_ , but he thinks about the fold of bills on his nightstand, still the same thickness as when Brad stuck it in his pocket. He sets the phone down. He still needs a shower.

*

Saturday afternoon Nate takes an appointment with Bruce, who is such a cliché it’s like he came out of a prostitution manual. Nate usually despises his time with Bruce, but today it’s freeing, and Nate can slip into the routine of john and hooker without having to think about anything except the next dirty thing to come out of his mouth.

 _Get on your knees_ , Bruce’s favorite opener. He fucks Nate’s mouth, hard and deep as he can, and Nate takes it easily. Bruce’s dick is wide, but he can’t reach past the back of Nate’s tongue, and when Bruce bursts bitter and thick in his mouth, Nate dimly wishes for the easier, tasteless slide of come in his throat, instead.

Nate strips them both, then Bruce puts him on his bed, soft cotton comforter sticking to the heated skin of his back. “Touch your dick,” Bruce says, and Nate tucks one hand behind his head and the other around his cock, half-hard against his thigh. Bruce doesn’t say _Don’t come_ , but Nate knows. That will be expected later.

Bruce is still used and soft, hanging limp between his legs, so Nate’s not surprised when Bruce crawls between his thighs with a thick pink dildo shiny with lube. He fingers it into Nate, slow but rough. “Spread your legs,” Bruce orders, and Nate watches Bruce stare at the glossy jelly surface of the dildo disappearing, reappearing, disappearing, until Nate turns his eyes towards the ceiling and just feels it. Slick, hot burn, occasional jolts of pleasure when Bruce brushes his prostate.

“Mmm, yeah, get you so slick and wide. Gonna fuck you, pretty boy, yeah? You want it?”

Nate cups his dick instead of rolling his eyes, twisting around the head to get the tremor of pleasure Bruce wants to hear. “Yes, god. Please, fuck me.”

Bruce shifts around, free hand rubbing and stroking his own cock and balls, and when Nate glances Bruce is more than half hard again, fumbling with a condom. The dildo comes out fast, and Nate grunts.

“Don’t worry baby, fill you right back up.”

Bruce fucks hard and slow, grunting orders to Nate, _Spread wider_ , _Squeeze me_ , _Touch your nipples_ , _Jack your dick_ , and asking questions he didn’t want the answers to. _Like that, baby? Love the way I fuck you, don’t you?_

 _Gonna come for me?_

Nate does, fist tight around his jerking cock, the heat in his ass and voice in his ear becoming Brad’s and Nate groans, dick giving one more weak burst of come. Bruce’s sounds as he comes, loud and grating, fade to whispers in the enormity of what just happened. He’s never pictured anybody else while on the job, never imagined his clients to be anybody other than who they were.

Nate’s never needed a fucking crutch to perform, never needed someone like Brad in his head to get him off.

Later, when Nate gets home with a short stack of bills, he sits on the edge of his bed and tries to figure out just what the hell he’s going to do now.

*

On Tuesday afternoon, he has lunch with a forty-something socialite named Kathryn who likes to be seen around town with pretty younger guys before taking them home. Nate’s never had her before, but he knows from gossip that he’ll be required to eat an expensive meal and flirt openly before spreading Kathryn out on her own California King bed and going down on her until she asks him to stop.

The whole thing takes less than three hours, fills his belly—the pleasant aftertaste of his spicy lunch almost strong enough to overpower the tang of Kathryn in his mouth—and makes him enough money that he can lounge, guilt-free, the rest of the week. Kathryn was more than generous.

By Tuesday evening, Nate’s full of pizza, pleasantly buzzed on tequila, and has convinced himself that what had happened with Bruce was no big deal. He hadn’t thought of Brad once while he was with Kathryn, so he was ready to chalk it up to having spent such an unusual and intense amount of time with Brad, and forget the whole thing.

Which is, of course, why Brad decides to text him, like he has some kind of bizarre Nate-related ESP.

 _Trivia night at galileos. Want to come?_

Even Nate’s good mood and willingness to move on can’t convince him this is a good idea. Even though he misses Brad. Maybe because he misses Brad.

Another text comes through to disrupt Nate’s dithering.

 _They have bells on draft_

Bell’s. The hoppy microbrew Brad had in his fridge, the phantom taste reminding him of his dick in Brad’s mouth. Nate smiles to himself and surrenders.

 _Be there soon_

*

There’s a crowd of guys with Brad, all grouped around a tall round table close to the bar in Galileo’s. Ray’s there, with three other men of various shapes and sizes, but all with roughly the same hardened look to them. It doesn’t take more than five minutes with them to figure out what they all have in common.

“You’re in the military?” he asks Brad, a little embarrassed that he actually sounds _incredulous_ , but he is so there’s not much he can do about it.

Ray sputters loudly, and the blond guy to his left looks as disbelieving as Nate feels, but it’s aimed at Nate. “We are not in the fucking _military_ , we are fucking _Marines_.”

“You’re fucking a Marine,” Brad interjects. “The rest of us don’t need to.”

“Hardy fuckin’ ha ha, Colbert.” Ray turns to the blond. “Ignore him, Walt. Brad has his panties in a bunch because you give it to me for free.”

Somehow the feeling of wanting to punch Ray in the mouth is already familiar. Nate wants to say something, but Brad beats him to it, expression glacial. “Person—”

“Okay, guys, hey. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Let’s just pull all our shit together and embarrass some civilians at trivia. Okay?”

“Fruity Rudy the peacemaker,” Ray grins, altercation seemingly already forgotten. “Anything for you, Rudy.” Ray pushes into Rudy’s space, making exaggerated kissy sounds until Rudy laughs and holds him back with one hand on his forehead. He looks at Brad, who just shrugs, calm as ever, shoulders loose.

Their sixth man—a Hispanic guy who has been pretty quiet so far, with the auspicious nickname of Poke—plunks two pitchers of beer in the center of their wobbly table. A Galileo’s employee steps on the small heightened area they call their stage to announce the rules of Trivia Night and that starting time is in five minutes.

Nate looks to Brad again, who does that half-smile, and his stomach clenches. It’s just nervousness. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself.

*

Nate’s drunk. He doesn’t even remember the last time he was this drunk, but maybe it’s because he’s so drunk. Their team had won the trivia contest, which netted them a gift card to Galileo’s that promptly got spent on more pitchers of whatever random beer Ray or Poke decided to choose when they went to the bar. All Nate remembers is that Poke’s taste is so much better than Ray’s.

He’d piled in next to Brad in a cab, not even noticing until they had arrived that they were stumbling into Nate’s own apartment, one ridiculous, awkward flight up.

As soon as they’re inside, Nate lurches towards the kitchen to fill a glass with tap water and gulp it down. He barely decides not to throw it back up. Brad wanders in behind him, much steadier on his feet, but with a bright alcohol flush across his cheeks and the low dip of his throat.

Nate plunks the empty glass down on the counter, and Brad takes it, sticks it back under the tap to refill it. Brad tries to hand it back to him but Nate moves away, knees wobbly.

“You need to hydrate,” he hears from behind him.

Nate shakes his head. “Gotta piss.”

His bedroom is dark but thankfully clean, and he makes it to the bathroom without falling over anything. He washes his hands after he’s done at the toilet, and presses his over-warm face with his hands, cool from the water.

Nate doesn’t bother pulling his jeans back up, just lets them fall and bunch on the bathroom floor around his shoes. He steps back into the bedroom and Brad’s there waiting on him, refilled water glass in hand.

Brad follows him as he collapses onto the bed. Nate finally takes the water and drinks it down, Brad eyeing him the whole time. Nate gasps in air after the last gulp, winded, and wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand. Brad tracks the movement, but only takes the glass and disappears from Nate’s bedroom.

The bed is cool and comfortable, and Nate spreads across it, tugging at his boxer-briefs where they’d twisted too snug around his thighs. Brad comes back in, damn glass full of water again, but he sets it down on the far nightstand and stretches himself onto the empty side of the bed.

Brad’s eyes are hot as he looks at him, and Nate feels at once too naked and glad his jeans are a puddle on the floor as Brad’s gaze heats him up. Nate chews his lip and Brad swallows, mutters _fuck_ , and finally leans in to his space.

It’s hot, sloppy, unrestrained, so different from Brad’s standard kisses, usually so tightly controlled. Nate surrenders to it, running his thick and clumsy tongue along Brad’s, wet and strong in his mouth.

Brad shifts forward more, pushing Nate half onto his back, and snugs their hips together. Brad’s cock is a hard line against Nate’s leg, and Nate moans as Brad wraps his long fingers around his hip then his face, angling Nate’s mouth for optimum insertion.

Nate thinks about the way Brad had held his head just this way when he’d fucked Nate’s mouth, and his hips jerk. He muzzily realizes he’s half-hard, sensitive to every drag and rub of Brad’s jeans through the thin, soft cotton of his underwear.

He breathes in the hot, moist air between them as Brad draws back to scrape his teeth along Nate’s bottom lip, giving it small sucks that sting and swell before dipping his tongue back inside. Brad’s kisses are sharp and shallow alternating with deep and wet, deep enough that Nate can taste the cheap beer lingering on the back of Brad’s tongue.

Brad’s fingers stroke and smooth along the back of Nate’s head and neck, and his mouth eases up, kisses drawing out longer and slower as Nate’s eyes get heavy. He drifts into sleep with Brad’s stubble rough against his cheeks, his thumbs soft against Nate’s jaw.

*

The headache Nate wakes up to is not that bad, and the first thing he remembers is Brad telling him to hydrate, the first thing he sees is the water Brad had left on the nightstand. After he gulps it down, he realizes Brad’s not there, even though he knows Brad was wrapped around him when he passed out, body hard, lean, strong.

It’s not until he’s pissed and chugged his first cup of coffee that he hears his phone vibrate a reminder against the counter, _new voicemail_. He checks the number and yeah, it’s from Brad. He doesn’t bother listening to it, though, just debates the wisdom of calling back.

There are bruises in the shape of Brad’s fingers on Nate’s hips and stubble-burn on his cheeks and mouth, like ownership claims he’d left before disappearing.

Brad’s phone rings through the tinny speaker into Nate’s ear only twice.

 _“Colbert.”_

“Brad, it’s Nate.”

 _“Hello, Nate.”_ And Nate wouldn’t say that Brad was smiling or that his voice got warmer or anything, but it does sound more personal somehow.

“Hey, uh…” He flounders, suddenly feels kind of stupid for calling Brad, even if he did kiss Nate like he was starving for it. “I just wanted to say thanks for getting me home and watered last night. I was pretty trashed.”

 _“You’re welcome.”_ Brad’s end is quiet in Nate’s ear, and Nate lets the rough static in the background—like Brad is far away—fill the silence for a few long seconds before he realizes that’s all Brad is going to say.

“You could have stayed the night.” Nate had no idea he was going to say that. “I’d have made you coffee. Probably not as good as yours, but it’s not bad.”

 _“I couldn’t.”_

Nate wants to grunt in frustration. “Look, if it’s the money thing, I told you—”

 _“Nate. It’s not. I had to go. I’m at Camp Pendleton; my company is deploying tonight.”_

“Oh.” And Nate sounds a little punched-out. But he’s surprised. He only just barely remembered that Brad was a Marine. Fuck.

 _“That’s why all the guys were here. We got orders last week.”_

“Okay.” ‘At a loss for words’ doesn’t really cover Nate’s frame of mind.

 _“I’ll be back in a couple of months. Probably. We’ll get a taco.”_ Brad’s voice sounds like it has a little bit of question in it, so Nate gets out another “Okay.”

 _“I’ll let you know when I’m stateside.”_ The speaker goes dead in Nate’s ear so he sets it back down on the counter. He eats a plain bagel, a banana, drinks a glass of grapefruit juice, and goes to take a shower.

*

Bruce calls the next day. Nate listens to his voicemail then deletes it. He finds where Bruce’s number is stored in his phone and deletes that, too.

*

Nate fucks James, a wiry, dark-eyed guy who reminds him of Ray almost two weeks later, his first male client since Bruce. He holds him face-down flat against the mattress, pinned so tight he can’t reach down to jerk himself off. James keens and moans beneath him as Nate whispers filth into his ear. It’s all by rote; Nate couldn’t remember what he said to save his own life.

Nate drives into James hard enough to rut James’ cock against the mattress, and James comes hard beneath him. Nate rides into it, mostly-hard cock a little more enthusiastic about the twitching clench of muscle around it, but after a few minutes James goes slack and uncooperative. Nate slows down and pulls out.

James stretches leisurely and moves out of the wet spot. Nate eyes it, glad they’re not on his bed, as James rolls off and disappears through the bedroom door. Nate tosses the condom in the bathroom trash and washes his hands, and James comes back into the bedroom as Nate’s pulling on his jeans over his boxer-briefs. James is still naked but he’s carrying his wallet.

“Stellar performance, Nathaniel.” James is a smarmy, annoying dick; Nate can’t say it’s a complete hardship to push him around and dominate him whenever he sees him. James hands him three bills—always hundreds—and Nate puts them in his pocket before tugging on his shirt. “I want to see you this weekend.”

Nate sits down to put on his shoes. “I don’t know, James. I don’t like to make weekend appointments too far in advance.”

James just grins, the cocky bastard. “I’ll keep the time open and call you back on Friday.”

“Okay, James.” He really doesn’t have any intention of seeing James over the weekend, but it’s his job. It’s how he pays his bills.

Nate finishes tying his shoes and is already on his phone to call a cab before he’s even on the other side of James’ front door.

*

Nate keeps his weekends open as long as possible for good reason, and sometimes that reason is Shauna Earhart. Nate prefers dick, but he likes Shauna, usually, especially when they’re not fucking. She’s sharp and quick-witted and never hesitates to tell anybody on the planet just exactly what she thinks about them. It’s how she’s made it in this shark-infested, sycophantic town; her honesty is like some fabled unicorn.

Shauna calls him early Friday evening and demands he take her to some new restaurant one of her clients just opened in Oceanside. The food isn’t bad and the restaurant’s patio seating is very casual so Nate’s comfortable, at least, but the waves are high and Oceanside is mobbed with tanned surfers with sun-bleached hair, and Camp Pendleton is so close Nate can practically see it.

Oceanside is full of things that evoke Brad, and Nate’s so frustrated with it all that he wants to lash out, wants to take Shauna back to L.A. and fuck her blind for bringing him here, wants to have never walked to that 7-Eleven in the middle of the day, wants to pretend he wishes he’d never met Brad.

Nate doesn’t do any of those things. Nate does his job, which is pay attention to Shauna, and earn his keep. But Shauna’s smart, too smart, and before the check comes, she’s calling him out.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Coming from anybody else in the world, Nate would take offense. Because it’s Shauna, he just feels caught-out.

He can’t think of anything to say to her that wouldn’t be a lie, or angsty bullshit, so he just shrugs. “I don’t know. Just thinking, I guess.”

“Are you finally ready to quit this shit job, then?”

Nate is honestly shocked. “What?”

“Seriously, Nate, how old are you? How long are you going to keep selling your ass? You’re pretty enough now but you’re not getting any younger. I’ve been waiting since I met you for you to ask me to put you in a movie or a commercial or anything. What the fuck have you been waiting for?”

“I never really thought about it.” Shauna surprisingly doesn’t say anything, and Nate’s quiet for a minute as he watches the surf and the colorful flashes of surfers bobbing amidst the waves. “I don’t know if I’d be any good.”

Shauna scoffs. “Do you think that’s ever stopped anybody else, before?” She sighs, drinks the rest of her chardonnay, drags her fingers through the condensation left on the outside of the glass, and fixes him with a hard gaze.

“Look, I like you. You’re honest and hard-working and God knows you’re fucking gorgeous. You should at least try, take a couple of acting classes, find out if you’ve got any talent.” The waiter comes to leave the bill and Nate turns away, feeling turned around and completely out of sorts. This job is over, if it had ever really started, and Nate doesn’t really know what to do next.

*

Shauna leaves him at his house with a card for an acting school held at some community college in north L.A. with her agency’s number scrawled in ink on the back. Nate’s ordered to go to the Thursday night meeting, call the agency the next morning to let her know how it went, “and for fuck’s sake, lose my home number. This is business, now, the kind where _you_ pay _me_ to fuck _you_.”

Nate isn’t able to see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but her smile is genuine. The rumble of her Mercedes’ engine and the squeal of tires are still echoing in his ears as he sits in his cool, quiet living room, the business card a bright white contrast to the dark, cheap wood of his coffee table.

*

Nick calls him Thursday afternoon, and Nate can’t turn down what is always his highest paying appointment. In terms of his own physical output, it’s also the easiest; Nick is the antithesis of James. Nick’s a control freak, and he gets his kicks overpowering Nate—an illusion, bought by Nick’s dollars, handcuffs, and familiarity with punishing toys.

Nate spends most of Thursday night face-down in Nick’s bed, skin striped with hot welts and bruises that pulse in time with his heart. Nick only fucks him once, but he makes it take hours, and Nate winds up exhausted and wrung-out despite the lack of necessity for movement.

At the end of the night, Nate’s ass is sore and fucked-out, and his shoulders are in agony from being held in one position for so long. Nick’s a good fuck, even though submission is definitely not Nate’s kink, but Nate’s dick didn’t do more than twitch in lazy interest all night.

The evening ends in the usual way, a ring of marks around his wrists and a pile of money left on the bed next to Nate. Nick doesn’t reenter the bedroom once he’s left it, and Nate lies still on his wrinkled sheets in a kind of apathetic panic. He can’t do this job anymore, it’s broken for him and he hates it.

He doesn’t know anymore what else he’s good at and he’s scared the answer is _nothing_.

*

Nate doesn’t take the call from Shauna the next morning, but the voicemail she leaves is scathing. He tries to ignore the vitriol and focus on the point: the next class is Tuesday night and his attendance is expected.

He saves the message and sets an alert on his phone, despite the zero chance he’ll manage to forget. He digs in the kitchen for several minutes before he discovers he’s somehow out of coffee, so he’ll have to make a trip to the market. Nate gets dressed, finds his wallet, and checks it for the usual—ID, money, bank card—and realizes he still has the wad of cash from Nick tucked inside.

Nate stands for a minute, glazed-over and unthinking. He digs through the whole apartment and finds money in almost every room, stacks of twenties, fifties, hundreds that got folded or rolled, jammed in a jacket or a pair of jeans and set aside, forgotten. He finishes by looking in the one place he knows he’ll find money—his nightstand, where the thin stack Brad had tucked in his pocket was folded innocuously on top of a book.

A search through his closet turns up a backpack, and he stuffs the money in the bottom. Nate slings it on his shoulders and calls a cab. The bank is too far to walk.

*

The backpack is a lot heavier when Nate _thunk_ s it down on his coffee table. He opens it up and pulls out a fragrant bag of coffee, fruit, cream, and four paperbacks. The market he’d visited was conveniently located next to a large bookstore. He’d picked up three how-to acting guides and, on a whim, _The Screenwriter’s Bible_.

Nate digs out an apple and thumbs through the acting books, settling down on the couch. He sets each one aside without much interest, telling himself he’ll read them once he’s gotten some idea of his acting worth from the class instructor.

He opens _The Screenwriter’s Bible_ and slouches into the couch.

*

When Shauna calls Wednesday morning, Nate doesn’t have any good news for her.

“The instructor said I was decent but lack focus and that my attitude sucked.”

“Well get your head out of your ass and focus. If you’ve got talent you need to use it. I’m not handing you shit just because you’re a spectacular fuck.”

“I don’t want to do it, Shauna.” Nate pauses, bites his lip, looks at all the loose paper scattered around. “I think I’m writing a screenplay.”

He expects ridicule, but he should expect better from Shauna by now. “You think you are or you fucking are, Nate? I can’t shop something you think you’re doing.”

“I am. I’m doing it.”

“Is it any good?” Shauna only sounds curious. Nate’s heart is beating ridiculously fast in his chest; he can’t remember the last time he was this wound up about anything, and he can’t decide if it’s fear or excitement.

“I don’t know.”

Shauna sighs. “Fine. Make an appointment with my assistant; bring it in when you’ve got something to show.” Shauna doesn’t let him say thank you or ask questions. The silence on the other end of the phone makes it easier to hear the pounding of his pulse.

*

Nate buys a laptop and a printer. He throws away his screenplay and starts over three times.

He doesn’t talk to Shauna for five weeks. He misses fucking people for money; it was so much less stressful.

*

Routine works best for Nate, and he’s on week two of the one he’s found to be most efficient. He gets up in the morning and drinks a smoothie, runs, drinks coffee, just like he used to before, only earlier. A lot earlier. When Nate sits down at his laptop with his second cup, it’s still only 9:23.

Nate writes, researches, writes, thinks, writes, and writes some more, until hunger drives him to the kitchen for lunch. He’s printed several pages of recent rewrites for manual edits, and he spreads them out on his small kitchen table.

Page three is a mess, proof of why Nate shouldn’t write at night when he’s too tired. He’s intensely concentrating on making the jumble of words make sense, and a knock at the door scares him into jumping against the table hard enough to slosh his coffee all over the marked-up pages.

Nate snatches the paper up, shaking off what coffee he can and trying to dab the rest up with his shirt as he walks toward the door. They all hit the floor when Nate finds Brad Colbert standing in the hallway.

He barely gets to take in Brad’s appearance—thin and tired-looking, austere in his desert camouflage that somehow makes him seem taller—before Brad is inside the apartment, long hands wrapped around Nate’s face, chapped lips pressed against Nate’s dry mouth.

The door clicks shut behind Brad, but Nate can barely hear it under the blood rushing to his face and dick. Brad’s tongue is in his mouth, sure and strong against Nate’s palate, his tongue, the insides of his cheeks. Then Brad presses into him, chest, hips and thighs, and Nate can’t help the moan that is muffled against Brad’s lips.

Brad moves them backward, paper rustling beneath his feet, until Nate’s ass collides with the back of the couch. The impact jars their mouths apart, and Nate grunts lightly and gasps for air. Brad takes the opportunity to push his hands up Nate’s shirt, rough calluses and jagged fingernails leaving goose bumps in their wake down his back.

Nate perches on the back of the couch, high up and legs spread. Brad pushes right up in between them, almost toppling Nate over. He sinks his teeth into the sensitive underside of Nate’s jaw, murmuring around the skin.

“I have to fuck you. I’ll pay, I don’t care. I just have to fuck you.”

A strangled noise escapes from Nate’s throat when one of Brad’s long fingers slips down the back of his pants and into the heated crease between his cheeks.

Nate’s pretty much beyond caring whether Brad pays him or not. He hasn’t had sex in weeks, and it’s been even longer than that since he’s come from the sweet pleasure of being split wide by hard flesh.

Brad slips his fingers out of Nate’s waistband, placing his hands on the outside of Nate’s thighs, high up. A sharp pull, wiry and deceiving strength nearly lifting Nate off the back of the couch, and Brad almost staggers, allowing Nate to take advantage of his unexpected slip. As soon as his feet are on the ground Nate is pushing, moving, bedroom in sight and the bed so tantalizingly _near_.

The peripheral sounds of paper still crumpling and ripping underfoot are unimportant, the taste of Brad in his mouth distant and secondary to the idea of getting Brad under him, in him, touching him, fucking Nate’s loneliness for him away.

They stop when they get to the bed, Nate preoccupied with getting the ridiculous uniform, stiff and unfriendly, out of the way. Nate unbuttons and pulls, stripping away layers until a yank on the camouflage pants brings him to an abrupt halt. Brad’s cock is trapped snug against his body in a pair of plain white trunks, every line and ridge delineated in tight white cotton. It’s _obscene_ , and Nate’s mouth floods even as his throat feels dry.

Nate’s thin veneer of control crumbles, and he pushes Brad down to the bed, briefs and pants shoved past Brad’s knees to bunch and tangle around the boots that Nate ignores. A quick detour to the nightstand and Nate is clutching the lube before undressing in seconds, t-shirt and sweatpants two separate puddles of cotton on the floor, somehow yards apart.

Brad’s chest is heaving silently, and he looks faintly ridiculous with his feet still flat on the floor and held together by faded beige camouflage, knees hooked over the edge of the bed and spread wide. But his cock is hard, twitching against his stomach, and his face is as intense as Nate has ever seen it.

Nate clambers on the bed, puts his knees on either side of Brad’s long thighs, smears his own fingers with lube, thin and slick. One finger slides in easy, and Nate pushes the second in with a wince. It’s been too long, but Nate is impatient, forced to wait until his twitching abates. He leans forward, left hand braced against Brad’s shoulder as he relaxes, finally comfortable enough to resume movement, and he uses the brace to shift back into his fingers.

Brad makes an incomprehensible noise, pure sex, and pulls Nate’s lips to his, his tongue making an immediate invasion of Nate’s mouth. It feels like conquer and ownership, and Nate moans. The sound intensifies when one of Brad’s fingers slips in next to his own, rougher and drier than Nate’s, but quickly becoming slicker as it slides around inside of Nate, against his fingers.

Nate’s hand had stilled at first, but as Brad’s finger begins thrusting smoothly in and out, he jolts back into motion, fingers and hips thrusting in clumsy, thick counterpoint. Nate’s dick bobs and jerks, swaying with the motion of his hips. It brushes Brad’s once and Brad nearly yells, the sound loosing a stream of words from Brad’s throat.

“God, Nate. Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck_.”

It surprises Nate that everything he wants to say gets stuck in his mouth. There’s no dirty phrase he hasn’t uttered at some point in his past, but the mundane things crowding inside his head—how badly he wants Brad’s cock, how he wants to fuck himself on it and come around it, the burning need he has to feel Brad fill him up with heat and flesh and come—are trapped behind his lips.

So he doesn’t say anything, just slicks the rest of his fingers and palm and wraps it around Brad’s cock, automatically riding the buck when Brad’s hips thrust up into his fist. Brad’s as quiet as usual after his outburst, intense and focused as Nate sinks down slow, slow, until he’s full of Brad, heat and faint twitches in time with Brad’s heart.

Nate waits, head hung low and sweat stinging his eyes, aching and too tense to relax. He closes his eyes and rises, falls, breathes through the sting, familiar, unremarkable. Nate starts as hot hands skim his thighs, opens his eyes as Brad cups his hips. Brad’s face is tight with the strain of stillness, and Nate moves instinctually, an undulating swivel that smoothes Brad’s expression, easing into the slackness of pleasure.

It’s easy after that, _good_ , and when Brad bumps his knuckles up the silky underside of Nate’s cock, Nate’s distantly surprised to realize he’s hard enough to leave hot snail-trails of precome on his own belly. Brad smoothes his fingers over the head and back down the other side before closing them around the shaft, giving a tight squeeze and twist, and Nate yells, rides Brad harder.

Brad jerks, gasps, hand heavy on Nate’s waist as he holds him down, driving deep, deep, until Nate can almost feel it in his throat. The groan Brad makes when he comes sounds almost pained, but Nate barely notices, shocked and aroused beyond belief by the feeling of Brad’s come inside him. No condom, Nate doesn’t even remember the last time, and the thick squelch as Brad thrusts wetly into his own come is so erotic that Nate is thrown, shaken and stunned, into his own orgasm.

Nate ignores the disconcerting feeling of misplaced time minutes later and concentrates instead on Brad’s hand, warm and damp on the back of Nate’s neck. Nate groans when Brad uses his grip to roll Nate off, and Nate sprawls on his back, arms and knees wide. Brad rustles next to him, and Nate glances over to see he’s taking off his boots and finally sliding his pants and briefs over his feet.

Brad moves further up on the bed, pulling Nate to lie next to him. A hot hand slides up his leg, Brad’s thumb sliding through the come slick on Nate’s thigh. Nate closes his eyes against a shiver of lust that still manages to shoot through him.

“Forgive me if my timing is gauche.” Nate can hear a smile in Brad’s voice and turns to see it on his face, that crooked thing that shows his teeth and brings out the crinkles around his eyes. Brad’s thumb swipes back and forth on his thigh, smearing the stickiness around. “Was that… wise? Given the company you keep.”

Nate sighs, then smiles. “Used to. Been flying solo for a while. I’ve been tested, I’m ok.” A thought crosses Nate’s mind. “Did you… I guess I didn’t think to ask. While you were gone—.”

Brad gets it. “There was a whore. But she fucked Ray and I make sure never to stick my dick anywhere his has been. I just jerked off. A lot.”

There’s an unaccountable lightness in Nate’s chest that he pretty much decides to ignore. “That sounds pretty hot.”

Brad licks up the side of Nate’s neck, skates his thumb higher on Nate’s thigh, brushing his balls. “You want to watch me jerk off, Nate?” His breath is hot on Nate’s face, below his ear.

“Wouldn’t mind.” Nate is embarrassed by how breathy his voice already sounds.

“Want to see all the ways I touched myself thinking about you? How I’d make myself come remembering the way you sucked my dick?”

Nate groans. “Holy shit, Brad.”

Brad’s laugh rumbles against his skin. He sucks in a gasp when Brad’s fingers smooth back behind his balls to dip just inside, eliciting a full-body shudder. Nate lets his knees fall wide, cock already more than half-hard, and Brad climbs between them, smearing the wetness Nate left on his fingers over the head of his cock.

“I’ll jerk off later,” he murmurs, and fingers his cock back into Nate, still wet and loose. Nate hisses; he’s sore, and Brad didn’t add any lube, just what remained on himself and inside Nate. But Brad fucks him slow, pulling out once to roll Nate over on his side before pushing back in.

It’s a leisurely, easy fuck like Nate hasn’t had in more years than he can even recall. By the time Brad comes inside him, sweaty forehead pressed tight to his nape, Nate’s a shaking wreck, gasping and twitching against the sheets. He groans, a scratchy terrible sound, when Brad pulls his dick out and replaces it with two long fingers for a few messy thrusts. Nate’s on the edge of orgasm at just the feel of Brad fingering him, but when Brad moves his hand abruptly to wrap around Nate’s dick, jerking him off smeared with Brad’s come, Nate loses it. He yells into the pillow and he thrusts into Brad’s fist and shoots, smearing the sheets, Brad’s hand, his own belly.

He’s unconscious before Brad’s even finished wiping his hand off on the sheets.

*

Nate can hear Brad moving around in the kitchen when he finally wakes up again. He unsticks himself from the bed and takes a quick shower on shaky knees, pulling on a pair of comfortable jeans before braving his way out to Brad.

He finds him standing at the counter eating a pile of scrambled eggs and reading the crumpled pages he’d clearly rescued from the floor. Brad looks up when he hears Nate come in.

“This what you’re doing now?” Brad asks with a blank expression.

Nate feels embarrassed and strangely defensive. “Yes.”

“So not fucking people for money.”

Nate clenches his jaw, uncomfortable, hating this conversation, but doesn’t look away from Brad’s even gaze. “It lost its appeal.”

Surprisingly, Brad looks away first, down to his eggs that he methodically chews and swallows. He pushes the plate away and looks back up to Nate. The blank expression is cracked, somehow, and he looks more unsure than Nate has ever seen him.

“So you’re free tomorrow, then.”

“Other than that,” Nate gestures back to the pages still in Brad’s hand, “yeah.”

Brad nods, walks over to Nate, and kisses him, quick and dirty. “I’ll call you.”

And then Brad walks out, door closing quietly, leaving Nate angry and confused, wondering if he’d ever see Brad again.

*

He doesn’t see Brad, or hear from him, for two weeks. Nate denies the part of himself that wants to sink into a bottle, ignores the part that wants to punch Brad in the face, and immerses himself in work instead. Every day he thinks about how easy it was to forget everything else when he was balls-deep in tight flesh or being fucked into a mattress, but he continually resurrects the empty feeling he had the last time, with Nick, and just writes.

He’s in a reverie in front of his computer when the phone shakes, a text message lighting up the screen.

 _Want to get a taco?_

Nate can’t decide if he wants to say yes, _please_ , or if he wants to throw the phone across the room out of spite. He stares at the screen until it goes dim and shuts off before making a compromise.

 _Where?_ he texts back.

He jumps hard enough to knock the laptop to the floor when there’s a knock on his door.

Brad’s on the other side, a white paper bag stained with grease clutched in his fist. Nate’s heart is thumping in his chest, and he suspects his anger is going to burst out of him. He surprises himself by laughing, instead, and Brad flushes and smiles.

“I already ate mine. Ready to get to step two.” Brad pushes his way inside and closes the door behind him before falling to his knees in front of Nate. “You’re not too hungry to wait, are you?”

Later, Nate will wonder what happened to the bag of tacos. But Brad is hungry and desperate at his feet, and it’s no time at all before he’s convincing Nate to fuck his mouth. It’s hours later when Nate remembers them, and Brad brings them into the bedroom to share before kissing the spiciness out of Nate’s mouth.

Nate rolls Brad onto his belly and fucks him as long as he can, but without a condom the sweet silkiness of Brad’s ass is an irresistible pull, so it’s barely any time at all before he’s having what feels like the best orgasm of his whole damn life. When he finally drifts to sleep late in the night, sore all over and satisfied with the taste of Brad on the back of his tongue, he marvels that Brad will be the first person other than Nate to spend the night in this bed.

*

Brad spends a lot of nights in Nate’s bed. It’s weeks before Nate starts to wonder why he hasn’t been invited back to Brad’s apartment. Brad, with his usual perfect timing, brings Nate to a small bungalow on the beach, packed full of Brad’s stuff, his motorcycle at home in the garage, and a dark bedroom dominated by a huge bed.

“You’re not making any money fucking me anymore,” Brad says with a smirk. “The least I could do is give you a free place to do it.”

Nate moves his books, his laptop, and his blender. Brad has everything else he needs.

*

Nate’s first screenplay doesn’t sell. Shauna reads it, shops it around, and it garners interest but no money. Brad gets deployed for six months and Nate overdramatically feels like he wants to die. He takes Brad’s surfboard out in the mornings and drifts, thinking of Brad sleek and golden in the waves and how he would smell and taste afterwards when he fucked Nate, always horny from the adrenaline rush surfing gave him.

He starts a new manuscript. It’s almost done when Brad finally comes home, and it takes weeks of make-up sex before he’s ready to think about it and finish it.

Shauna finds a buyer for it in six days. Suddenly, Nate has more money than he knows what to do with.

“You’re financially independent once again, Mr. Fick,” Brad tells him, the hated blank expression not fully hidden behind a smile. “Time to go back to your old place?”

It’s a stupid suggestion so Nate completely ignores it. “Let’s celebrate. Go out for tacos.”

Brad smirks, Nate’s favorite crooked tilt of lips, and his blue eyes heat up.

“Did you ever think of just asking me to suck your dick instead of going through the ridiculous ritual of eating tacos before putting me on my knees?”

Nate smiles. “Maybe I just want you to take me for a ride on your fancy motorbike.”

Brad rolls his eyes but moves to the door, grabbing his keys on the way out. “Fine. But since I’m the one doing the work later, dinner’s on you.”

The motorcycle helmet neatly hides his smug smile.


End file.
